Into the Dark
by the-brightest-fell
Summary: Oneshot. Song fic. Soul knew that Death was always a possibility in their profession. They faced it everyday. But that doesn't mean he was prepared for the day Death bested them. It only meant that he'd already made up his mind to follow her into the dark.


**Author's Note:** Hi. Hate me if you want to. I'm not particularly proud of this one, but it was just so stuck in my _head _that I felt like I'd have a Black Blood attack and go insane if I didn't Get. It. Out. So...yepp. Expect the next episode of We Are the Dead soon. Like...maybeeeeeee by Wednesday? I hope. Should be. Probably. Also, if anything seems OOC I am terribly sorry. Just throwing that warning out there because I sort of tried to keep it relatively canon but...I don't know. Still not particularly happy with this oneshot. It's kinda weird and random. Ah well. I'm in a bad mood...

**Disclaimer: **I am so musically challenged that it is laughable to even imagine these lyrics are mine. Anywho, song and lyrics and inspiration for this piece belong to Death Cab for Cutie. People also point and laugh at my drawing skills so...don't think Soul Eater is mine either...pfft. Also, image is not mine.

**Update: **Silly me didn't pay attention to the Guidelines and now has to update and remove the song lyrics. I encourage listening or observing the lyrics to the song "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab For Cutie as it will help illustrate the story's flow and thought process. Thanks so much for all the reviews and favorites! (Love, Bright!)

* * *

**Into the Dark**

* * *

Death.

It was something they faced every day. Something they knew about. Something they understood, perhaps more than anyone else ever could. Hell, they spoke with the God of Death and his son on a daily basis! They delivered It and sometimes they postponed It….

Death…was just a part of their life.

And he knew, dammit, he knew it was a possibility. Every mission was merely a play date with their employer's pet—something he could order and keep, but couldn't completely control. It was a force with a reckoning of its own, an unfair vengeance against anything that lived and breathed, and the weapon wasn't surprised that it was finally calling, no, _shouting,_ for their blood.

The worst part was that it was supposed to be "easy." Maka had even jokingly stated they'd probably have to visit the gym afterwards to work up "an actual sweat." The readings from the area suggested a witch with miniscule power, maybe the equivalence of the first kishins he and Maka had hunted what felt like eons ago. Because of the difficulty level, they weren't even assigned the fucking job, but Ms. Maka-Workaholic-Albarn had eagerly volunteered for the chance to do some more "in field" training.

_Just because you're a Death Scythe now, Soul, doesn't mean we can sit on our asses and get lazy! We have to practice and train and be the best, right?_

She had smiled so brightly at him…

And, yes, Lord Death had warned them. He always did. And, as per usual, they promised to be careful. They promised to watch out and be wary since there was little known about this witch (which wasn't really anything new since there was only a handful of witches that Shibusen could completely categorize and identify). They promised to report in and call for backup if needed.

And they promised to flee if things got too dangerous…

They promised they'd come home alive.

Soul felt rather than heard Maka scream at another particularly vicious and painful blow. She was too weak, too tired, to actually make the sound of anguish anymore. Just an open mouth and eyes squeezed shut and a body that vibrated with torture it didn't have the power to vocalize. Before Soul could inquire as to how terrible this new wound was there was the sudden sensation of flying. He sluggishly wondered if perhaps his meister had somehow gained the upper hand and forcefully pushed them into the air to escape. It wasn't until his entire entity rang with a jarring clang and he sensed her body hit something with enough energy to snap bones that he realized they had been thrown into a wall. Again.

He blearily turned his attention to her slumped form, knowing there was no need to panic quite yet. She was still alive if the intense grip of her hand on his shaft was any indication. He was proud that he could still see her. Even though it already strained his entire soul to stay quiet, to stay strong, to stay in weapon form and conscious at that, he refused to give into the instinct to conserve energy by fleeing internally and becoming the monotonous swing of a scythe. He would protect her and he would watch her if he had any say in it (and somehow he still did)!

Her appearance saddened him though. There was an air of defeat that had never been worn by her person before. Soul remembered the girls once oohed and ahhed over Maka's clear, moonlight silk skin. It was like satin, so soft and unblemished and shiny. One half supreme genetics and one half doting, extreme care. She even scarred nicely, the silly bitch. She hardly had any…and those were small and delicate; tiny slivers of white that didn't speak the volumes of pain and strength used to obtain them. But now…her pure skin was stained various shades of murky brown, abysmal black…and a blinding red that acted as some sort of neon sign pointing out how pathetic of a weapon, a protector, a lover, he was to her.

There was that stench…warm and humid…the air was saturated in the smell of rust…iron and oxygen escaping from the body in that thick, maroon liquid…

Oh dear Death, all he could sense was her blood, his blood, blood—

They were going to die, weren't they?

She was going to die…and throwing himself in front of a blade would do nothing but kill him first this time. He knew and, by that breathtakingly honest green glance she sent his way…she knew it, too.

There was no way out. Death had come to claim those who had cheated It one too many times. Maka's painted lips, a whorish crimson color that Soul wished he could wipe away to allow the truer, softer pink to shine through, parted and, though he didn't have the willpower to make his ears listen, he understood what she was saying. A last wish of sorts.

But like fucking hell he would let her die alone.

* * *

There was this one time in a little chapel in Italy where the doors only opened from the outside and a tormented soul resided on the inside that Soul faced Death. The experience kind of quelled any desire or belief of religion he'd ever had. Growing up he had been taught of a Heaven and a Hell and a God and that death was only the beginning of something one couldn't begin to appreciate or understand…

And then he had died. And discovered there wasn't anything.

Like, at all.

No light. No tunnel. No angels singing or dancing. No dearly departed greeting him or whispering encouragements. No higher power banishing him to happiness or to torture.

Just…wasting away into the dark.

And, then, her.

Maka. Maka Albarn. His meister. His best friend. His dream girl (though you'd have to resurrect and kill him a couple more times for him to ever fucking admit it). His first love…and his hope-to-be first girlfriend.

And as the dark was taking him on that marble sacred ground…Death coming to claim him…he had felt her midget hand somehow strangling his comparatively massive one. He had felt her tiny soul filled with so much of…everything that the dark didn't seem so dark anymore.

It wasn't until later, many months later in fact, that Soul "Eater" Evans realized that he might just have a type of religion after all. A religion where one freaky Demon Scythe worshipped a small, somewhat unimpressive pigtailed social idiot with a massive brain and way too much courage and a soul somehow pathetic and miniscule but paradoxically huge, rare (one in five million in fact), and powerful all at once.

Honestly, who needed a Heaven and a Hell if one had a Grigori soul that resonated perfectly with your own jagged, fucked up one?

Not Soul. Definitely not.

All he needed was a gloved hand intertwined with his own and eyes that put all other greens in the world to shame and that constant fizz, or spark, between two souls…

Yeah. That was good enough, _cool_ enough, for him.

* * *

Sometimes Soul found it funny that Maka never noticed her effect on things. She didn't really take note when boys would hit on her (something he was eternally grateful for), when people would praise her, when her father was proud of her, or when Soul would drop hint after hint after _hint_ about what she did to him (physically and emotionally). It was kind of endearing, her child-like naivety and tunnel-vision attitude.

But sometimes it worried him.

Sometimes, Soul wished that she would pay more fucking attention to what was going on. Pay more attention to the fact that Crona was dangerous or that Lord Death could have ulterior motives or that madness was waiting just around the fucking corner and it wanted to consume her.

There was no black and white in the world as Maka liked to view it. There were shades of gray…and sometimes she stubbornly refused to acknowledge this. In her mind there was good and there was bad and it was as simple as that.

But Soul knew better. Hell, he harbored an evil inside of him that he couldn't even begin to describe. And evil, like goodness, was not something so easily dissuaded. So easily forgotten or easily explained.

Death was kind of like that, too.

Maka, bookworm that she was, had read about the anatomy of a body, of a mind, of a soul. She could probably reiterate verbatim what was happening to her in the moment of her demise—internal organs punctured and ripped causing her blood to pretty much go places it shouldn't. Sure, it was still inside her…but it wasn't doing its job. Instead of sustaining her life, it would be building up, compressing on her organs and eventually crushing them, causing them to quit. Or maybe she would go into hemorrhagic shock first which would lead to her brain cells slowly suffocating without any oxygen causing brain damage and eventually death.

But knowing and understanding something…was completely different from experiencing it.

Maka Albarn was quickly realizing that the world might not have been as clear cut as she once thought and it hurt Soul far more than any physical pain ever could, ever would, that she was learning such a lesson of life from their Death. He could tell from their connection, that tension between them that refused to break even as time slowed down and they couldn't feel their bodies and their minds were frantically reliving every moment of life, every regret, every joy, every step that had brought them to this point, that Maka wanted a Heaven or a Hell for them both…but knew that there was no such thing.

Not for them anyways.

But he sent her a jolt of electricity, an ember igniting from a sliver of a spark, across their wavelength to ease her growing panic and sadness at this revelation. Her eyes met his reflection in a red too dull for their scarlet environment and they twinkled promptly in response to his faded smirk.

So what if there wasn't a place for them.

They'd make one of their own soon enough.

* * *

It was extremely clichéd (which basically in Soul terms translated to "not cool at all") but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't replaying some moments of his life.

Shibusen had been the scariest fucking decision of his existence…though ironically also one of the easiest. If he wasn't born to be an Evans, then Soul figured he might as well wait for a sign to be whatever else he was supposed to be.

And what better sign was there then when your body spontaneously started sprouting scythe blades?

Taking Maka's outstretched hand was the smartest decision of his life. Funny how at the time it seemed so meaningless…he needed a partner, she needed a partner and, well, neither thought it would last too long. She once confided that she had planned on breaking it off with him the moment she found a female Demon Scythe weapon.

But Fate had other plans for them, he guessed.

Plans like Medusa and the Black Blood and the kishin Asura. Or the infiltration of Arachnophobia and the slaying of Arachne and the worst school trip _ever_ into the Book of Eibon.

And the most important decision of Soul's life?

That was ignoring Medusa and Little Ogre who both swore Maka would never understand him. The demon inside of him especially pushed for separation from the angel-girl with her sparkling smile and clean wavelength, always crisp and clear like liquid diamonds. Only the parasite hadn't counted on her being as tough and hard as diamonds, too. For so long he feared his affections for his meister, tried and tried to remain platonic and friendly with her, to no avail.

Maka was his. In everything.

She was his partner. His friend. His meister. His source of annoyance and of joy. His executioner (via Maka-chop and heavily bounded collections of words). His peace-bringer. His foundation. His love. His fucking entire existence was devoted to her at this point and he didn't want that to change. Ever. Maybe it was the madness, the black blood that polluted his veins and poisoned his mind, but he just loved that little girl so damn much that dying for her…with her was something he could do with a big, genuine smile on his face.

The most important decision of his life was smashing his lips to hers and swearing he'd never fucking ever even dream of letting her go.

He'd follow her anywhere.

* * *

Soul was upset that they were dying like this though. For the most part, he imagined them eventually getting married and having kids and dying like that old couple in that chick-flick that Maka, Liz, Patty, and Tsubaki liked so much (The…Journal? Notebook? Something like that…)—in their sleep while holding hands. He daydreamed about their future so often he forgot that it wasn't set in stone.

The bitter reminder was worse than a Black Star punch to the face right now.

Not that they were laying down and giving up. Hell naw. That wasn't the Soul Eater and Maka Albarn way they were known for. Maka insisted they had a reputation to uphold and, all the while profusely apologizing on how it was her fault and that she should have followed Soul's instruction to_ high tail it the fuck out of here_ when she had the chance to, she wasn't going to allow them to go down without a fight.

The problem was they were only mortal. And they could recognize Death in the vicinity…and it wasn't aiming for the witch this time.

Soul could barely remain in weapon form, too exhausted and drained. He was so beat up and battered, blade scratched and chipped as though made out of cheap steel, that it was a miracle he had held himself together this long. And Maka…

He wasn't sure how she was doing it. She had to have several broken bones, bleeding on the inside, and no doubt was fading in and out of consciousness if her half-assed movements were any indication…but damn it she was still fighting. She took each hit with a silent wail, each new cut with a whimper and a shake of her head, as though mentally berating herself for losing more blood or trying to talk herself into keeping on her feet.

But then—

This time she did scream, her block too slow and Soul's reflexes too late to stop the lash of magic hitting her right in the chest. And it was so different from all the others, so full of horror and regret and absolute agony that Soul somehow managed a burst of adrenaline. His eyes wide and absorbing every detail, the weapon immediately reverted to his human form and cradled his broken meister's body, hands slipping and sliding in a surprisingly heated liquid as he tried to mend the gaping hole.

"MAKA! Fuck! Maka, listen to me _fuckitall_! Not yet! Maka Maka Maka…" He crooned as her eyelids fluttered, unsure of whether they wanted to shut themselves from the cruel world or meet Death head on.

She was fading fast.

The only thing that kept Soul from losing it was the fact that he knew he'd be following her soon.

And still his stubborn, beautiful meister was begging him to run. Pleading that he leave and go on for her sake and the sake of Shibusen and how it was his duty as the next potential Death Scythe and yada yada yada.

As if he cared about all that. As if anything, even sanity or the safety of the world, would matter to him when she was gone from his side.

Soul glared at the approaching witch, gleefully cackling at the shattered weapon and his withering meister. He watched her swipe a hand at the ground and suck _her_ blood off a finger as though she was tasting the most delicious dish there ever was.

Come to think of it she probably was. Maka's soul, her precious Grigori soul, was what most witches and kishins were after…

And he knew what his last act as her weapon would be.

Soul shakily situated Maka behind him, her body curled and pressed neatly into his, and through sheer willpower transformed one arm into the most impressive scythe he could muster in his fragile, weak state.

"You'll never have her."

Because she was _his._

* * *

The first thing she did was raise a challenging eyebrow, as though they weren't slowly dying without a chance of escape, help, or survival. She even dryly added a-

"Soul, what the hell are you doing?"

As was his nature, he coolly stuffed both hands into his jacket pockets and shrugged nonchalantly, a serrated smirk glittering in the gray twilight.

"Well…I brought us here."

To the Black Room.

Maka appraised her glowing form and onyx dress with a grin and hungrily stared at his attire and undamaged person. He was happy to see her soul unharmed and whole, looking every bit the lovely woman he admired without a drop of blood to mar her perfection, and she was happy to spend her last moments with him, both seemingly fine despite the chaos of their life draining away on the outside.

"…It's darker in here than I remember."

"Well, I am dying, Maka."

Green eyes, _God fucking damn green eyes_, a color Soul was sure her parents acquired by stealing the soul of Mother fucking Earth when they were partners so many years ago, flashed in the room, somehow managing to bring a light to ward off the darkness.

"Yeah…I know."

And she started to shake with sobs.

Soul swiftly rushed to her side, shakily running a hand up the velvet skin of her arm and shoulder and neck before resting his giant hand on a porcelain cheek. His thumb brushed lightly over her lips and he couldn't stop the smile from blooming at being able to see their natural pastel color once more.

"Don't cry, Maka. Please don't cry."

He enveloped her in his arms and hers circled his neck in response. In here they could pretend that Death held no power over them. In here…their souls were safe. Her soul was forever out of reach from any witch, any kishin, and any Death god that desired it. Perhaps he failed at being a weapon, at fully protecting her…but at least he succeeded in this.

In here…they didn't have to waste the few breaths left to their names by exchanging words. Anything they needed or wanted to say was already shared and understood between them. So they swayed to a soundless symphony as the Black Room grew blacker. Soul's body was losing, Maka's body was drifting and Death was stealing what little life they had left.

But that didn't stop two souls from melding together one last time...and, one following the other, they slowly burnt out and faded into the dark.


End file.
